


Hetalia drabble collection 3 - The dark ones

by drcalvin



Series: Drabbles and ficlets [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ballet boots, Dark, Historical, Marking, Multi, Non-Penetrative Sex, Smut, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and short ficlets, originally posted on the hetalia anon meme. These are the darker ones, several contain sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Centuries of Gold - Spain, France

**Author's Note:**

> Hetalia deals with nations personified as characters. I hope I have not offended any one with the way the nations are depicted in my stories - it was definitely not my intent.

When France finally finds him, the annoying little bastard is sitting at his rickety kitchen chair, surrounded by all the average tools of a household. An old, worn table which shows traces from so many meals prepared, in the stains and cuts and burns littering it. There are the ever-present onions, a large sack of flour in the corner and though the day is warm enough, the fireplace never stops emitting its heat - waiting to be fed, so it in turn can help feed its master.  
Spain sits at his chair and studies something in his lap, appearing either very serious or (more likely, in France's opinion) sleepy.

"Why didn't you show up yesterday?" France asks, stepping up to the other nation and poking him in the neck. "Huh, we were supposed to go drin-"

In Spain's hands, there is gold. Such bright, splendid gold...

It may just be the greatest necklace France has ever seen, an exquisite treasure obviously taken from the New World, with emeralds and pearls and gold. So bright...

"You dumped me to stare at a necklace?" he asks, disbelief colouring his voice. "Spain, I'm hurt, truly!" Although, looking at that necklace himself, he can almost understand its allure.

The necklace slips out of Spain's hands and France almost whimpers when he hears it crash onto the stone floor. Of course Spain is wealthy now, with a whole new world to explore and exploit, but to treat fine gold like that!

"I thought they'd join me," Spain says, his words unusually hesitant. He has still not looked up from his lap, although his hands are slowly lifting now, fingers spread wide.

"Excuse me?" France doesn't understand him, even less than usual.

When Spain turns to look at him, his eyes are closed and his mouth is lifted in a smile, but there is nothing filling the expression.

"I said- We said. They should accept the cross, accept my bosses." Spain reaches inside a dull brown bag which France had not even noticed until this moment and brings out a great heavy bar of gold. France can't tear his eyes from it and when Spain drops it too on the floor, carelessly, he almost cries out in protest.

"I thought I'd have lots of children," Spain says, playing with a small pagan bracelet he has found in his bag. "I love kids. We'd live in my house, we'd go visit theirs..."

"You have little Romano to care for already," France points out, "why would you want more brats?"   
Do you, he tries silently, not want the gold any longer? I can help you! Hmm, perhaps this sounds too opportunistic

Spain looks down at his hands, which are now resting on the kitchen table. That table, familiar - old, scarred, burned. These days, _his_ hands are the hands of a wealthy nobleman, one who has never cut himself while working on the field, nor been burned and branded as a slave. He doesn't need to work the fields any longer, he only needs to count his gold and quench any protests to keep it coming, ever more.

"I wanted to raise children. I think that's what I wanted. But then, I never..." he breaks off. "Only, they weren't children, were they? Even though they were small and friendly."

"If you don't need all that gold, Spain, perhaps I could-"

"And now they aren't anything at all." Spain bends, picks up the necklace and the gold bar. "There's only gold left. Gold and corpses."

"I like gold," France says, almost leering at him. It turns to a scowl when Spain packs the treasures away and rises.

"I hope you'll never learn," Spain says, "how in the end, bones weigh heavier than the gold."

"What in the world are you talking about?" France looks at him as if he has grown a second head, but Spain merely shakes his head.

"Nothing. Children." He gives France the bracelet. "Please, take it," Spain murmurs. "Sorry 'bout yesterday - I can maybe make good for it now?"

France smiles then and laughs, slaps his back and doesn't notice how Spain shies from the hand holding the bracelet. They leave the kitchen and none of them speak more of children that weren't, or how much blood an ounce of gold can cost.


	2. Eat up - Belarus/Russia (stuffing)

When Belarus comes up to him after a meeting, Russia tries to escape. However, for once she doesn't mention the word marriage, but only inquires after his health.

It is with great hesitation that he admits that, perhaps, he has been surviving mostly on vodka since they all left him alone. That's where it begins.

"I only want you to grow strong, dearest brother," she tells him when she begins to come over with homemade food.

It is nice to have company, Russia thinks, and since his sister is still more worried about him wasting away than reuniting, he allows it to continue. Once or twice, she even drags Ukraine along and they all share a lovely meal.

Belarus cooking, however, is rather full of calories. When he overhears England remarking to America that the young idiot doesn't have to watch his weight until he starts looking like Russia, he realizes that his trousers have been showing an increasing strain as of late.

"Sister, dear," he tells her, "I think I am not too thin, any longer. Yes?"   
He smiles hopefully at her and she nods, acting as if nothing is wrong. He believes her until their next dinner, a week later, when he drops the cutlery and finds his speech go thick and slurred before they have finished the soup.

"You are still the greatest country in the world, dear brother," Belarus voice rings clearly through the fog filling his mind. "I will show everyone how great you are..."

Russia's mouth falls open despite his attempts to close it, he slobbers and spills food all down his coat, but his sister only giggles and keeps feeding him. And feeding him, with borscht and bread and cabbage and eggs and cake and more, more, more...

"There, brother," she murmurs sweetly when his stomach is taught and the bile keeps rising in his throat, "aren't you feeling much better now?"

He tries, desperately to nod, because every time he has protested, she just feeds him more and more.   
"Then, dearest brother," she whispers and unhooks her skirt, pulls down her pantyhose, "I think you deserve a _special_ dessert."

When she hooks up a leg around his shoulder and pulls aside her panties, his only wish is that he will manage to keep the nausea under control.

"Lick it all up, dear brother, and grow big and strong!"


	3. Friends - Russia/Iceland

"I'm glad you uphold your end of the deal so eagerly, little one," Russia whispered and grabbed the almost fragilely slender shoulders more tightly.

Since Iceland had his mouth full, he could not answer, but he waved a hand dismissively. Then he did _something_ with his tongue, something that made Russia groan and thrust deeper into his mouth.

"So hot, little one," he said, large fingers digging into Iceland's shoulders, "ohh, your name belies you!"

"No," Iceland said softly, breaking off for a moment. Still, he remained close, speaking every word directly against Russia's cock and flicking his tongue out now and then, teasing the grand nation holding his shoulders and economy in equally firm grips. "There are many kinds of ice, my friend."

"Yesss..." Russia's hand was large enough to almost envelope half his face, and when he pressed him forward against his cock, Iceland obeyed.  
"So hot," he almost sobbed again, "oh, little one, y- you'll be my friend for a long time, yes, yes!"

Continuing his ministrations was easier than answering, so Iceland proceeded to do just that. He didn't mind being Russia's "friend", not as long as the big nation kept his part of the bargain. Iceland was used to friends, and masters. In the end, he found, there wasn't much difference between them. Let them enjoy his heat, let them call him small, exotic and odd... As long as they didn't abandon him, he would gladly kneel before the one with the most generous purse.

For his home was covered in glaciers and his heart had frozen beneath them, many centuries ago. If there was any warmth at all left in him, it was only for his own children.


	4. Shame - France/S. Italy, Noncon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shame; a circumstance bringing disgrace or regret. Is this shameful, Romano wonders?

"Your lips are so sweet... To drink a kiss from them is to feast on sunlight, dearest one," France tells him and forces him to the ground.

You should smile more, Romano! Isn't it sunny and nice in your house today?  
Spain said that once, before he noticed the upturned bucket on the floor. After that, they spent the day yelling at each other.

"Please, darling," France whispers in his ears while teasing his nipples, alternating gentle strokes with electrifying, sharp little pinches.  
"Show that wonderful Italian smile for me, oui? I could play your pleasure like the finest instrument, if only you would join me in the symphony for a second."

France's cock pokes Romano when he presses his leg against Romano's sex. It makes waves of heath and near-pain blossom in the bottom of his stomach. He turns his face away from another of those demanding kisses.

Spain caught him wanking once. He nearly fell over himself in his haste to get away, which would have humiliated Romano to no end, if it wasn't so obvious that the depraved bastard couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of Romano's cock.

When France tugs at his sensitive hair, the silence is finally broken, and Romano keens sharply. The pretty words fall all the more rapidly, afterwards, while the skilled hands move so much more insistently.

He screamed at Spain - Get out, GET OUT YOU ASSHOLE! - and the idiot excused himself, ran into the doorpost, fell on his ass, stared and then crawled out. It was horrible, by far the most humiliating experience in his century-long life.

Even when France's lube-slicked cock enters him, when he makes Romano twist and whimper beneath devilishly skilled fingers... Tears come to his eyes and his hips move helplessly. France is all endearments - mon cher, sweetest love - while he takes and takes and never once cares.

Yet even then, the memory of Spain's horrified fascination and his own new and oh-so-confusing sexuality burns in Romano's mind.

Afterwards, the lovely words have dried up. His ass feels weird and slimy. Spain would still stare at him, he thinks. Maybe cry a little, but he wouldn't be able to look away. He never will.

And with that thought, Romano pushes away his satisfied invader and goes to wash away the physical traces of his violation. Tomorrow is another day. He needs to grow up, grow strong, if he's ever to show Spain who the _real_ boss is around here.


	5. Bolshoi - Russia/Prussia, Ballet boots, noncon

"Wha-? Hahahaha! Think I'm gonna watch bloody ballet! That shit's for wusses!"

He should have known Russia - sorry, sorry, comrade USSR - would take that as fighting words.

The East German delegation went to the ballet, as did most of the head honchos from the big guy's house.

Only Ivan and Gilbert stayed behind; for private cultural exchange with comrade East, as the smiling arse explained it. Smiles all around, in fact.

Hours after the humans had left the Bolshoi Theatre for other amusements, Gilbert was finally beginning to find an appreciation for Ivan's culture. Though he wasn't smiling any longer.

"Shiii-"   
Biting his lip, he tried to keep the pleas inside, even as his calves burned with tear-stinging intensity.

"Ah, ah," Ivan tutted and glided around to stand in front of him again. He looked far more intimidating than any man had a right to be while wearing a leotard. He still sported his falsely gentle grin.   
"Arms should be gracefully rounded, my dear. Think lightness, fresh air - spring."

His hands trailed down Gilbert's side, each light touch leaving a burning trail on a too-tense body. The toe boots, even with their "supporting" heels, were murder. The way Ivan had been placing him in excruciating position after position was hell... But when he decided to _help_ him, by tying Gilbert's arms above his head and so forcing him to either strain his abused legs to the utmost or suffer a painful pull in his shoulders after only a few minutes, they descended to a new circle. There could not be many lefts, he thought. There must not be many left...

"I'm sorry." His tongue was too thick and he could feel sweat pool down his back, making the leotard stick disgustingly to him. "I'm really fucking sorry for- Oh God- Sorry, insulting your ballet."

"Mhm?" Russia's hand stroked further down, coming to rest between his legs.

His eyes slid closed. No, no, please not this again...

"I think East is beginning to understand now."

"Yes!"

"Then perhaps-" A quick flick with his knife, and he had freed Gilbert's arms. The sudden loss of balance, and subsequent added weight to his toes had him crying out in pain. At once, Ivan's arms were around him, supporting with a mocking gentleness.

"I believe," Ivan said, crowding so close that it became impossible to ignore his heavily present arousal, "that it is time to teach you _attitude à la seconde_ now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballet_boots


	6. The morning after the uncomfortable night before - US/Thailand, implied rape

"Ehrm, so. Like, wasn't it a little bit fun at least?"

The lump on the bed doesn't stir when Alfred enters the bedroom, despite the awesome latte he ran down and bought just for his guest.

"Aw, man, I'm sooo sorry." He's always hated apologizing, Alfred has, but he knows what a man's gotta do in a situation like this. He's up-to-date on his literature, after all, Even if he still secretly prefers the Golden Age when Superman could stomp nazis and all that.   
"Look, I'll just-"

Shit; England's gonna chew his ear off when he hears this. Literally.

"I can talk to the others, if you want? I mean, don't want you to get a bad reputation or anything like that..."

And France will hit on him like whoa after this, fuuuck.

Finally, a reaction. The lump moves, reveals a thin arm. He happily hands over the coffee and a bagel. Everything is better with bagels.

"That is all right, America," his unfortunately unwilling partner says. He puts the coffee aside, the food too. But at least he takes the little lemon-scented napkin and, very carefully, begins to clean under his nails.

"I don't think much good will come of it, ana, if we go talking too much."

He almost slaps him on the back then, but remembers in the last second. The cheery wave probably looks a little awkward, but that's all right. Today is a little awkward.

"You're a gem, Thai, really! I mean- I know I fucked up and I'm totally sorry."

The napkin is a small ball of mush, but Thailand only keeps wiping his hands with it. Maybe he's not hungry this early in the morning? Alfred is always hungry, but he knows some dudes aren't. Or-

Oh man, he's really gotta do something about sensitivity and crap. Maybe Matty can help him out? He's always going on about it anyway.

"You need something for the headache? Or water? I've got water! Heh, we were way wasted yesterday, weren't we..."

There's something sharp in Thailand's eyes then, but he smiles and nods. "Perhaps a glass of water would be good for me. And then I must take my leave, ana."

"Sure you don't wanna hit the showers first? No? 'kay. And dude, I'm _so_ grateful that you're being so cool about all this. Really!"

Thailand finally stops wiping his hands clear. America figures that maybe this is some kind of hint, so he leaves (without snatching the bagel, he's trying here, he really is) and hides in the bathroom until he hears the door close behind the other nation.


	7. Marking, Turkey/Greece

Some nations dream of wars, because they enjoy the slaughter.   
Some nations have wars because they would not know how to be nations any more, if they stopped.   
Some nations don't even have wars, they're _improving_ the _world_.

But when Greece's anger is finally roused? When his blood boils, it is because his scars burn and the maps call him out. They mock, the laugh, always reminding him of the past. He wants to rewrite them, he wants to redraw them so perfectly, that none can remember that they ever looked different.

When Turkey went to war, before, it was to grow and take. Why would he care about enemies defeated? He was his own and that was enough. But. Somewhere along the way a boy captivated him, forced his hand. Drew his interest, an interest which lingers. He wants to brand him, again, he wants to feel his sharp sword biting into the contested lands.

They're not at war right now.

Maps remain as they are. But even if the swords are exchanged for knives and the invasions for more personal victories... Everything is, still, about the scars they can leave on each other.


End file.
